


Frayed Taffeta

by Reyanth



Series: On Izuhiko [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyanth/pseuds/Reyanth
Summary: A new pairing for the adventurous K fan!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So… sounding out the most under-valued yet totally attractive pairing possibility of any new fandom I enjoy writing is a thing I have a habit of doing. (How can there only be ONE tag with this pairing, and that in Chinese!? Okay, so maybe I get it a little:) Of all the crazy, unorthodox pairings I have ever experimented with, including in crossovers, I think I struggled the most to find the thread of legitimacy in this one. It meant making a lot of assumptions about ties and relationships with others that don’t quite fit with the status quo though they should be acceptable under canon. Frankly, I’m not sure if I got it quite right. I might just have to mess around with some other takes on this pairing before I’m satisfied, but I’d love to hear what people make of it!

Always the bridesmaid; never the bride.

What a whimsical phrase to sum up Kusanagi Izumo’s life in general. He simply wasn’t the hero of anyone’s story—not even his own. His heroes—and heroines—all had other leading men in their lives.

They loved him. Everybody loved him.

The kids loved him. The Blues loved him (for being so compliant, anyway). HOMRA’s clients, the Silver folk, the brats from that preppy school… they all loved him.

Maybe it was the dialect. Maybe it was that he was pretty easy going. Maybe it was that he was skilled but not fearsome.

Maybe those were all reasons, too, why he never got to be the bride.

He’d always been there for Mikoto—always. Before anyone else. Then Totsuka came along and Mikoto stopped being able to really see anyone else.

Seri-chan was the same. She opened up to him and showed him that gorgeous feminine nature she always hid from everyone else but when it came down to who she chose to cuddle up to at night, it wasn’t him. It was that stuffy Blue sword in a suit.

He worked the bar. He missed Mikoto. He took care of Anna. He co-operated with the Blues. He teased Seri. He scolded Yata. He mourned Totsuka. He rounded up thugs.

When had it all gotten so flat and pale?

Mikoto. It always came back to Mikoto. The moment that firestorm faded from Izumo’s life, life began to fade, too. He’d been vibrant and alive at Mikoto’s side, even if he wasn’t in Mikoto’s heart. He made the plans and took point most of the time but Mikoto was the boss and his fire drove everything and everyone and made it all so real. Now, all the plans, all the scuffles, all the co-ops… it felt like make-believe.

Anna was in charge now; so pretty, like a little living doll. A doll playing HOMRA in this run-down excuse for a doll house. That was ok. That was good. Izumo could be there at her side forever, dressing up as the right-hand man; the knight; the bodyguard. But he wasn’t alive anymore. He’d forgotten how to feel.

Until a knife flew out of the dark and took the jackpot of all data right outta his hand, mangling it beyond use.

Until another knife—invisible, silent, and intangible—thudded into his heart and he watched Fushimi Saruhiko walk away. Again.

There was someone without any leading man in his life but himself. Not that there was any such vacancy. Saruhiko didn’t think he needed a hero of his own.

Izumo knew better.

*

_“Pathetic.”_

_A tiny grunt and a nod of agreement were all Izumo could manage. He gripped the edge of the bar tightly, waiting for the world to stop spinning but it just kept on twirling around, doing cartwheels about his head just because it could._

_That hurtful, disparaging sound came out of Fushimi’s lips as he came around the counter, ducking under Izumo’s shoulder and wrapping an arm about his waist. The bartender wanted to point out that suddenly squeezing the mid-section of a nauseous drunk was a terrible idea, but if he opened his mouth, he’d vomit._

_It got a little better when the couch took his weight and he didn’t have to focus on balance so much anymore. He groaned, partially in relief, but also partially because he still felt so awful. He knew he’d feel a little better if he could just cuddle up with someone, have his hair stroked or something._

_“Fushimi, c’mere,” he slurred, reaching out vaguely and peeling open his eyes._

_“I did my part,” the brat notified him, already walking away._

_“Please.”_

_“What am I, an idiot? I’m not going to cater to your every whim just because you used manners! That shit only works on Mikoto.”_

Not true. It worked on pretty much everyone else.

_“Please. Saruhiko.”_

_The sound of steps faltering, and then Izumo realized his eyes had shut of their own accord immediately after he’d opened them. He tried again._

_Standing over him, Fushimi looked like some kind of tempting demon, there to steal off with his soul. Yet the dissatisfied expression painted across his face said he had no use for a half-assed soul like Izumo’s. He sat on the couch, out of arm’s reach._

_“I don’t get it,” he said. “You already know it’s a lost cause. They’ve been together for years and nothing has changed, so why do you do this?”_

_Izumo felt blindly outward until he came into contact with Fushimi’s arm. He let his hand slide down until he found long, cold fingers that stung his own heat-infused skin. The nausea subsided a little._

_“He means everything to me,” he breathed, wetting his mouth cautiously and taking a slightly deeper breath. “And Totsuka means everything to him. So I love Totsuka. But I don’t. I hate him. For taking Mikoto away from me. Hating someone you love is the worst pain there is.”_

_“That doesn’t even make sense.”_

_“I hope it never does; not for you.”_

_“Kusanagi.” At last, Fushimi’s fingers returned his touch, transitioning from a passive surface to an active connection. “Are you gonna throw up?”_

_No. Definitely not._

_“…Yeah.”_

_“Shit!”_

*

Saruhiko knew it now. He knew exactly what it meant to hate someone you love.

Saru and Yata had never been meant for each other—not the way Mikoto and Totsuka were; or Seri-chan and that icicle-dicked prick. That didn’t mean Saruhiko had loved any less the brat who made up 9/10ths of his world. Cutting out eight of those 9/10ths must have been real painful. That’s why Izumo had never been able to do it.

Saruhiko was strong; strong enough to hate what he loved and believe it was the same thing. Izumo could see it in his eyes when he turned on them. For all the anguish it wreaked in Seri-chan, he couldn’t blame the kid. He was just searching for something he didn’t even know he wanted. A hero of his own.

*

_Izumo wasn’t the only one fuming as Totsuka bestowed a gentle kiss on the forehead of one Fushimi Saruhiko. The obvious blush and uncharacteristic quiescence spoke louder than any words that boy had ever tried to voice out loud._

_Putting aside his own anger at Totsuka for teasing the boy right there in front of everyone—in front of Mikoto!—Izumo darted a glance at Yata who wore an open glare like a blazing sign that said “Hands-Off.” He plunked the bottle he was shelving down on the bar with a solid clink that diverted attention even as he turned his own glare on Mikoto. What was with that amused, indulgent expression, as if it was cute that Saruhiko had a mild crush on his boyfriend._

_Hell, all the kids adored Totsuka, but Saruhiko was particularly vulnerable to the allure of such an open, caring soul full of life and energy. Like Yata, Totsuka was an emotional being that Saruhiko just couldn’t fathom and that mystery evolved into a kind of fascination. In other words, a crush—not that Saruhiko recognized it as any such thing. Yata did, though. Oh, boy did he get it._

_“Oi! Saru! Let’s get outta here! We got shit to do.”_

*

Both Yata and Seri-chan had confessed to him how often they’d tried to text or call Saruhiko, trying to draw him back from whatever he’d gotten himself into after cutting ties with Sceptre 4. Seri-chan had been especially forthright, calling Izumo and lecturing him with her fears and worries. She’d asked him once if Saruhiko was at HOMRA.

Izumo might be the only one who really understood that Saruhiko would never turn to HOMRA again. There was no home for him in a place of bitter-sweet memories; not like there was for a sentimental fool like Izumo. Sceptre 4 was different, even if Saruhiko was just repeating the worst part of Izumo’s own history.

Putting it together from bits and pieces of stories he’d heard from Seri-chan, Izumo had eventually learned that Saruhiko was stuck on the outside of the same relationship that he himself was tormented by. Again.

A pair of bridesmaids holding onto wilting bouquets and clutching vainly at hideous taffeta skirts.

Not that Saruhiko would ever realize he was head over heels for the Blue king; especially not now that he was cutting out another 8/10ths of his heart by leaving the Blue clan. Just how much of it was left? Enough to save?

Maybe just enough to match the little patch of his own heart Izumo kept tucked away out of reach of Mikoto and Seri, and anyone else who didn’t want it but would take it anyway, just because they could. But then, that was it, wasn’t it? Saruhiko wouldn’t take it even if he did want it. That was just the kind of idiot he was. So Izumo was going to have to hog-tie him with his hands upraised, put that little piece in his hands, and close his fingers around it and then hold them closed until he gave in. It was just that simple.

Izumo had no way of finding one trumped-up brat in the lonely city of Tokyo but it just so happened he knew exactly where a JUNGLE member might go for a night cap after a successful mission.

*

Even as he smirked over the martini Hirasaka had set before him, Fushimi couldn’t help but feel a little tendril of guilt. Not because he was under-aged. He might have spent the last few years protecting the letter of the law but he’d also spent his fair share of time as a law-breaking delinquent. It wasn’t even the horrified shock his betrayal had brought upon Lieutenant Awashima. She was the type to benefit from having the rug ripped out from under her, every now and again.

The guilt he felt was for deceiving Kusanagi in such a way. Even now, he still remembered slipping into Bar HOMRA at 4am after fighting with Misaki. He’d thought he could nap a few hours on the couch, at least, but instead of closing up shop and putting himself to bed, there Kusanagi was, an open bottle spilled over on the bar next to his head; wine turning the honeyed gold of his hair as red as Mikoto’s.

Everyone knew how he felt about Mikoto. Everyone knew, too, that he watched over Mikoto and Totsuka like a doting mother. Nobody considered that doing so might have caused him so much pain that it seeped out and found an outlet in drinking when nobody was looking.

_“Hating someone you love is the worst pain there is.”_

_“That doesn’t even make sense.”_

_“I hope it never does; not for you.”_

Too late. Fushimi was born hating everything he loved. He probably didn‘t even know what it meant to actually love something and not just be attracted by the inconsistencies it exhibited with how Fushimi knew the world worked. Things like cats. So cute they broke the internet and yet totally useless and ineffectual creatures that never did anybody any real good. Dogs, now, they had actual skills. Herding; guarding. So how was it that Fushimi could feel comforted and consoled when that stupid stray tom-cat followed him home to Hirasaka’s place and he gave it a few pats to shut it up? Cats didn’t make any sense. It was fascinating.

Misaki was adversely affectionate like a cat, too. The captain was exactly like a cat. Down to the smug stare that said, “You exist in this world to fulfill my nefarious purposes.”

Fushimi really hated cats. Really.

He didn’t hate Kusanagi, though. The strategist now believed he had turned on yet another clan. Awashima was devastated for herself. Kusanagi… Fushimi knew Kusanagi would only be devastated for him.

“Oh, would you stop brooding? You did it! You’re a J-Ranker! Congratulations! Now when are you going to get the hell out of my apartment?”

“Your apartment? Don’t forget who’s paying for it!”

Hirasaka waved him off, slamming back her gin and tonic and bringing it down on top of a coaster with a satisfying thud. “That’s your down payment, remember? Not to mention rent! So you’d better hurry up and pay me for leveling you up, and get the hell out.”

“Go home,” Fushimi hissed, glancing about for any potential snitches. “You’re a lousy drunk,” he added with a sneer when he judged the vicinity was safe of prying ears.

“At least I’m not a mopey drunk,” she retorted, swaying on her feet when she stood and nearly teetering over before she made it to the register to pay off her tab.

It was a miracle that she didn’t recognize the man she collided with on her way out. Fushimi did, though, and he reflexively relaxed; all the better to whip out a knife and trim a few inches off of those unexpectedly long locks while he made his escape.

Holding out his hands and wearing a look that said, “I’ll pretend it’s a truce as long as it suits me,” Kusanagi sauntered over and sat right down in the seat Hirasaka had just vacated. He raised an eyebrow at the martini and then reached out for it himself.

Fushimi slapped his hand away. He could go drink at his own damn bar.

“That was some stunt you pulled tonight. J-Rank, eh? You work fast, I see. What’s next? The Silver clan only has three members. You could jump right to the top of the ranks, there-”

“Not to my tastes,” Fushimi said abruptly. Grimacing as he downed most of his martini, spilled a little over his chin, and tried to wipe it angrily away. It was time to leave.

Kusanagi grabbed his hand, then wiped up the spill with an indulgent smile before licking his fingers. “I agree. They’re a bit too innocent, those goodie-two-shoes.”

“That’s right. Same reason I left Sceptre 4. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of no good to get up to with my nasty new clan, so-”

Fushimi paused, halfway out of his chair. Why did he have to laugh so genuinely like that? As if there was no farce, here; no play-acting. As if they were truly just old friends catching up on recent events and any moment now they would start reliving the good old days.

“Sorry, it’s just… Seri-chan! Innocent! Just the thought of it is hysterical! Not to mention that tightwad Blueberry of hers!”

With a frown, Fushimi sank back into his seat. Since when did Kusanagi go around blatantly insulting Munakata? He was always polite to a fault, at least in manner if not words. Was it because Anna wasn’t around? Did he actually chafe at being a role-model all the time?

The beginnings of a tiny shudder tingled through Fushimi’s bones as Kusanagi’s eyes fell on him with a serious glint. “She loves you, you know.” Anna? “Like a doting big sister. This whole thing has that missing heart of hers twitching like a phantom limb.” Oh, Awashima.

Did he think Fushimi didn’t know that? There was a mission at stake here! She’d get it in time.

“You could have at least given her a hint, you know,” whispered Kusanagi. “You didn’t have to destroy that data. You coulda just given us a few nicks for those points you needed. No need to make it so realistic.”

Idiot! This bar was a hotspot for JUNGLE members! Particularly those of the higher ranks. It was bad enough that he had just waltzed right in to this place to begin with—even if he did look more like a shining Adonis than the slick-haired, shade-wearing strategist of HOMRA every JUNLGE member had tagged as a mission target.

Scowling, Fushimi hopped to his feet, skulked past Kusanagi, and informed the bartender that his “friend” would take care of his tab. That ought to buy him some time. However, when he got outside and the cool night air caressed his cheeks, brushing away the warmth of the drink and the heat of his temper, he was temporarily frozen in place.

Would it be so bad to tell just one person? Kusanagi could keep a secret better than anyone he knew. If there was anyone at HOMRA he still trusted—anyone he trusted at all, really—it was Kusanagi. If Munakata’s Sword of Damocles came crashing down and the captain had to be sacrificed to stop the advent of another crater incident, nobody would ever know that Fushimi wasn’t the turn-coat scumbag they all believed he was.

All but Kusanagi. How could he tell? Fushimi’s act was flawless! That was exactly why he showed no mercy in destroying that data, because he was good enough to get everything they needed to take JUNGLE down from the inside. How the hell had Kusanagi figured it out?

Grabbed by the hand from behind and jerked forward as Kusanagi swept on by, he stumbled as he was dragged along but followed anyway. Would it really hurt to confirm his mission to this one man who already seemed to have guessed it anyway? Fushimi’s eyes widened as the man pulled him into the entrance passage of a cheap love hotel. He fought down a blush but didn’t argue as it was actually a halfway decent plan if they had to have this talk. All he had to do was hack into the hidden cams stashed about whatever suite they ended up in and disrupt the feed with some porn replay or other and they would be able to talk in peace without anyone the wiser.

Fifteen minutes later, seated on the edge of the bed that took up most of the room, Fushimi sighed and cracked his knuckles, looking up helplessly from his screen at the man reclining against the headboard who looked more like himself now with his tie loosened and crooked, bits of his hair swept back behind his ears, and his constricting jacket slung over his shoulders instead of worn about his frame in the traditional manner. Still, the surprisingly pale hue of those eyes, usually darkened by shades, was disconcerting; especially when trained on Fushimi like a loyal guard dog, waiting to be thrown a well-earned scrap from the table.

Had Fushimi thought he hated cats? That was nothing to how much he loathed dogs. All that loyalty heaped upon anyone who would show them a bit of affection. Faithful. Obedient. _Trusting._

“How did you know?” he asked, wanting to get this over with.

“I watched you leave once,” Kusanagi said, in a light tone that felt inappropriate to the subject matter. “Growing apart from HOMRA until you couldn’t stand it no longer. Growing apart from Yata until you hated him as much as you loved him.” Fushimi tensed up at those words, imagining himself springing at Kusanagi and clawing at his face for daring to think he _knew_ anything. “You didn’t have to grow apart from Mikoto. You weren’t never his. Munakata, now. That’s a different story. I’ve watched you, Saru; sniping at the Blues and acting all grumpy-like… but acting, for sure. You’re too happy there to leave them like you did us.”

“I hate you,” Fushimi hissed.

Even he was shocked by the vehemence of his tone and his very choice of words. Why had he said that?

It must be that he just hated _hearing_ such things; spoken like facts. What right did Kusanagi have to judge his feelings?

Woah. What the hell was the man thinking that made his eyes widen like that and his lips slacken so… alluringly?

“Saru…”

*

“I love you.”

That was what Izumo heard.

Not in that sappy, lovey-dovey sense so irrevocably associated with that pattern of letters. He translated the very strong emotion crammed into the words and the fear and vulnerability in Saruhiko’s eyes, and the context brought him to one conclusion.

It wasn’t as if Saruhiko was in love with him. That wasn’t what this was about at all. What Saru was saying was that he was lonely and hurt, and so very tired of playing the bad guy. Had Izumo thought Saruhiko was his own hero? What a terrible mistake. Saruhiko was his own villain. He wasn’t the bridesmaid… he was the spurned lover who came roaring down the aisle and tackled the wedding party to the ground trying to get at the bride and groom.

Here he was, compromising what Izumo had yet to confirm was an undercover mission and reaching out to someone he should have left behind a long, long time ago. The damn fool didn’t even know the difference between hate and love and everything in between.

“Saru…”

Just as he had in that one clear image among a slew of hazy, drunken memories, Izumo reached out to surround Saruhiko’s fingers in his own—and just as they had then, those cold fingers curled around his in turn. Their eyes had been locked since that awful lie passed Saruhiko’s lips, but now both pairs softened instinctively.

“I won’t tell Seri,” Izumo promised. “Or our guys, either. Just tell me you really are spying on these Green creeps and I promise I won’t say another word.”

“Why do you have to look so damn pretty with your hair down?”

“Huh?”

The next thing Izumo knew, Saruhiko was looming over him, kissing him hard, and deep, with all the loneliness that had been pent up in him for such a long time. Izumo had one policy in both love and war—to give as good as he got. For every shaking breath that revealed another hint of vulnerability in Saruhiko, he brushed his fingers lightly over pale skin or dark hair. For every delving thrust of the tongue that tried to intensify things into something more purely physical, he dodged out of this kiss and let his breath beat against Saruhiko’s jaw and ear until raw passion calmed into something tempered and honed and then he pushed back, trapping Saruhiko’s tongue against his own and sucking on it until he drew out an honest moan.

Strong-willed as ever, Saruhiko broke free at last and clutched at Izumo’s shirt, scrunching the white linen in his fists and burying his face in the collar. “What the hell is happening here?” he gasped.

“Whatever you wanna have happen, Saru,” Izumo replied.

Hands resting at his sides, body propped up with tension but passively latent, voice sincere but unassuming, he waited. It sounded like it didn’t bother him either way what happened next. If Saruhiko kissed him again, or if he got tossed out on his ass, it didn’t matter.

It did, though. Whatever it was that Saru wanted to have happen here, Izumo knew what his own hope was—what it had always been.

That kid he’d watched get into spats with his boyfriend because they were both too immature wasn’t something he’d been attracted to; not then. This young adult, however—the result of the potential he’d always been aware of—this was someone he had wanted without ever having to acknowledge it. He was no more in love than Saruhiko was but he trusted this boy; he _cared_ about this boy; and for once in his life, there was no viable competition except for Saruhiko himself.

*

_I just became a J-Ranker. I should report to base. It’s been fun, old man. See you when the world ends._

It would be easy enough to say the words. They were right there on the tip of Fushimi’s tongue, trembling along with him, waiting to be unleashed.

_See you when the world ends._

That would be a stupid thing to say. The world wasn’t going to end because Fushimi was going to save it.

_It’s been fun, old man._

Who was he kidding? Kusanagi was like brandy that aged with elegance and flavor and just looked that much more beautiful when poured into a glass, waiting to be devoured.

_I just became a J-Ranker. I should report to base._

True enough. Not urgent, though. JUNGLE was all about freedom. Whether Fushimi headed right there after leveling up or whether he popped in a week from now would hardly make a difference.

_I just became a J-Ranker. I should report to base. It’s been fun, old man. See you when the world ends._

How long? How long until Fushimi, the brand new J-Ranker who had left behind everyone he cared about stopped the world from ending? How long did he have left? He wasn’t getting out of here alive. He knew it; Munakata knew it… and whether it had sunk in or not, Kusanagi probably knew it, too. Fushimi was going to die a traitor and the only person who knew the truth apart from the one who had sent him into this, was giving him the choice to go out with one coal-bright memory burning among the ashes.

“I fucking hate you,” he snarled, fully aware for once that he was lying through his teeth.

“Hey, now. No need for that kinda language,” Kusanagi soothed, grinning just a little more weakly than usual.

Did he have to wear vulnerability on his sleeve like that? Did his eyes have to shine with quite so much hope and fragility?

Slowly, Fushimi sat up. He glared at Kusanagi, making it clear that he was unhappy about pretty much every single aspect of this whole situation, and shrugged out of his jacket, flinging it on the ground. Then he pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed that aside too.

“Does that mean-”

“Shut up and make out with me.”

*

Izumo was laughing inside. He couldn’t help it.

 _Shut up and make out with me?_ What a brattish thing to say, in so many ways! Saruhiko might have grown up somewhat, but he hadn’t grown out of his bad attitude. It was awfully adorable!

He grinned blatantly against Saru’s lips as his palms roamed over smooth young skin toughened with a storybook of scars. How Saruhiko managed to convey both irritation and want all at once was a mystery but he was managing it very well indeed. One by one, the buttons of Izumo’s shirt came undone in fingers so eager they found ways to scratch him even around the confines of the material. One nail caught deep in tearing the freed material away on its way down to the next fiddly button and Izumo’s voice caught in the back of his throat. He nipped Saruhiko’s lip in retaliation, moaning to drown out a growl that did more to arouse him than even the nimble tongue and soft lips tangling with and sliding against his own.

Gasping for breath, Izumo stared up at the ceiling, feeling a little lost at the sudden cessation of that hot kiss. He tilted his chin, his eyes following Fushimi down to his belly-button and then slowly back up again. His shirt was thrown open and his chest and abs were heaving as he regained his breath—something Fushimi seemed to have no need for. Okay, so maybe there was a little age gap but- _mmm, don’t do that!_

_Oh, god. Keep doing that._

Izumo arched and buried his fingers in Fushimi’s hair, zapped with electricity—actual real electricity—as Fushimi tongued his nipple. Brat looked real pleased with himself, putting the Green aura to use like that.

Kusanagi almost gave him a taste of his own medicine, his fingers twitching with heat just under the skin but then the mutilated mark on Saruhiko’s chest swam up in his mind and the power drained from him as he lost the will to use it. Instead, he hauled Saruhiko up and then flipped him, pinning that thin, un-soldierly body beneath his own.

Holding Saruhiko’s gaze, he moved slowly, their skin sliding together as he descended, but he didn’t go far. He broke eye contact when he was hovering over the lingering burn. Of course, there was no mark there anymore; not since Mikoto… not since Mikoto’s passing. Saruhiko was well-and-truly Blue now. Well, aside from that pesky Green lightning.

Flicking his eyes up once more, Izumo made sure his lover got the message when he began to lick and kiss that old wound.

_I don’t care if you’re not Red anymore. I don’t care if you’re Blue, or Green, or Silver, for that matter. This is about you and me, not clans, or whatever clansmen might get in our way._

He saw it then, in Saruhiko’s eyes. He wasn’t coming back.

He really believed that.

All the more reason for Izumo to give him someone to return to; someone to return for.

*

Little panting breaths escaped Fushimi’s lips as he trailed his fingers through Kusanagi’s hair and focused on the ceiling. If he looked down he might just cum too quickly.

He was still a little flustered by all of this. It had happened so fast and with so much more gravitational force than he ever would have expected.

It wasn’t like he’d never thought of Kusanagi this way. Why not? The guy was hot, and he gave Fushimi a sense of stability that was the exact opposite of the anxiety and uncertainty certain others inspired. He’d thought about it once or twice when he was in just the right mood for that kind of fantasy. Never once had he actually entertained the idea of it though.

And why not? Who was there in Fushimi’s life to hold him back from pursuing a man he cared about and found attractive?

No-one. So those sexy lips wrapped around his cock and that surprisingly soft blond hair tickling his thighs and belly were all his. For now, anyway. For tonight.

He glanced down and almost came undone. “Oh, shit.”

Why did Kusanagi have to _look_ at him? Like that! Now! While he was… “Stop!”

Taking his time, Kusanagi dragged his mouth up the full length of Fushimi’s arousal, practically kissing the tip to finish. Then he dared an innocent, quizzical tilt of the head.

“I… don’t think I’ve ever told you…” Fushimi shook his head. Of course he’d never say something like that! Why would he ever say something like that? Except now, at a time like this… He just wanted Kusanagi to know that it wasn’t a last man on Earth kind of scenario. He wasn’t doing this just because he might… just because he was going to die. “You’re really sexy.”

The last word came out embarrassingly breathy but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because Kusanagi’s eyes widened emotionally and Fushimi made a choked sound as the older man leapt at him and smushed him in a kiss that was all lips and no tongue, knocking his glasses askew. He grunted as his shoulders were pushed down into the mattress and Kusanagi peered down at him with serious lust written all over his face.

“You,” he said, drawing closer until Fushimi could feel his breath and catch the faintest whiff of the strawberry mints he could still taste. “Are a walking wet dream, Fushimi Saruhiko.”

Fushimi shuddered all over. There was no containing it. Not with Kusanagi saying those words in that delicious voice, in that quirky dialect.

A unique spark dancing amidst the blaze of a bonfire. Flame that burned without immolation. Part loyal dog… part fierce, strategizing tiger. Kusanagi Izumo.

“Izumo, can we…?”

Fushimi swallowed, combatting a blush at what he wanted to ask but hated having to say. Couldn’t Izumo just figure it out?

“Can we…?” the man prompted

Apparently not.

“Can we… have sex? I really want this right now.”

“Silly Saru…” the sighed words trailed off as Izumo kissed him; another tongue-less kiss but this one gentle yet passionate in its own way. “What did you think was going to happen?”

The teasing words were accompanied by a warm stare with a twist of amusement, but for some reason it didn’t make Fushimi feel like he was being laughed at. He didn’t feel angry or annoyed at all. He didn’t feel irritation, or hatred, or anything he usually associated with feelings. He just felt warm for the first time he could remember.

*

Was the kid trying to kill him?

_Can we have sex?_

No. We’re going to do each other’s hair and give ourselves make-overs.

_Can we have sex?_

What are you, twelve? Jesus.

_Can we have sex?_

Fuck. Do you have any idea how achingly hard I am right now and how desperately I am fighting the urge to just pound you into the mattress until you scream out the name you haven’t even realized you started using?

You called me Izumo! Fuck that’s hot.

You’re so hot.

Yes, Saruhiko. Yes, we can have sex. Since you asked so nicely and all—and aint that a shocker!?

“Silly Saru…” Knowing full well that he was going to be hard-pressed to keep control over his rising passion from here-on-out, Izumo touched his lips to Saruhiko’s and imbued the kiss with all of the love he had never been able to pass on to Mikoto or Seri. Other lovers there had been, but none who unraveled him as Saruhiko had done in one short hour. It was a beautiful, tender moment that meant a great deal to Izumo. He allowed that to show in his voice even as he spoke with an igniting spark of the passion that was to come. “What did you think was going to happen?”

It was a rhetorical question and he gave Saruhiko no chance to respond, leaning over to the bedside table and rummaging for something tube-like in the top drawer. Strawberry flavored. Nice.

Without a word, his kissed his way down Saruhiko’s body, kissed the tip of his cock, and then tugged and lifted skinny hips so he could kiss something else. Despite the naive words, he knew Saruhiko was no blushing virgin but he also knew for a fact that he almost never let Yata top when they were together. Not much of a surprise, really, but Izumo was going to show him the difference between being humped by a horny teenager and being made love to by a man with skill and experience.

As he lubed up his fingers and started rubbing them against and then into Fushimi’s ass, he was almost surprised the boy didn’t object, or outright assume he was going to be the one on top here… but one look up the length of Fushimi’s slightly trembling body and the raw need in those startlingly blue eyes proved there was no doubt in his mind.

_I… don’t think I’ve ever told you… You’re really sexy._

_Can we have sex?_

Fushimi hooked one knee around his head, resting it lazily as he tilted his hips a little to the side. From that angle, he regained a little control over his body and breathed slowly, watching Izumo with a somewhat unfocused, lazy gaze. His glasses were crooked and his hair was mussed. Very sexy.

Feeling like a saint for keeping himself leashed for so long, Izumo sat up, gently manipulating Saruhiko’s legs into a position that would make things easier. He tossed the tube onto the dresser as an afterthought and then took a deep breath. When his lashes fluttered open, he was looking down at a fallen angel.

Well, if Saru wasn’t damned yet, they both would be real soon. He opened his mouth to say something flirty but never got a word out.

“Shut up and make love to me.”

*

Izumo was so much larger than anything Fushimi had ever taken before but he was smart about it. He eased his way in with little rocking motions that helped Fushimi relax, hanging his head and neck back over the arm that cradled him.

Izumo was close. He could feel breath on his face or upper chest when the man hung his head. He could feel heat radiating from skin that touched him or lingered just out of reach—and invading him inch by inch. So hot. So… pleasant.

The transition was so subtle, Fushimi didn’t really know how it had happened. Izumo was just _there_ now, sliding within him and provoking little stabs of pleasure that tingled and spread.

There were pauses and kisses, fingers running through hair—fingers pinching his nipple!—a tongue at his pulse, teeth closing over and tugging at patches of skin. Belatedly he realized those bites followed the rakings of his own nails over arms, back, and thighs—anything within reach. His fingers flexed and he clenched them, pressing his fist to Izumo’s back and arching and groaning as he was rewarded with a calculated thrust that filled his closed lids with static.

“Fuck. Izumo... Fuck.”

There was no scolding for language now; no mothering or teasing, just a depth of passion he’d never even suspected. “Cum for me, Saruhiko.”

_You… Are a walking wet dream, Fushimi Saruhiko._

“Fuck! Yes! There! Right there!”

_What did you think was going to happen?_

Prying his eyes open, Fushimi blinked away sweat and was foggily aware that his glasses had gone MIA. He didn’t even need them to see that look in Izumo’s eyes that told him he was the whole world, right now.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, and then threw his head back and lost control of his body, bucking and shaking as—he was sure—Izumo exploded pinpoint fireworks throughout his nervous system.

*

Neon lights screamed through the windows, guttering and flashing back to life. The sounds of the street and the melody of night-life reached his ears a little dampened; a little muted. The night was cool, but he wasn’t quite cold, lying on the bed stark naked with a cigarette between his lips. Saruhiko’s body-warmth hadn’t quite faded yet.

Always the bridesmaid; never the bride.

Nobody ever said the bridesmaids couldn’t hook up behind the altar.

There hadn’t been much talk; just a lot of meaningful staring and throaty hums and sighs that said a helluva lot without words.

Fushimi had taken off five minutes ago, hurrying to solidify his position within JUNGLE to ensure what he seemed to assume was to be his death. Izumo would never allow that.

Mikoto had taken a vital chunk of Izumo with him—but Mikoto had never been his.

Fushimi was, though. He was now.

Whether or not Fushimi had found himself a leading man; Izumo had gone and found himself another hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this give you ideas...? WRITE THEM! See, I always have this "If you want something that doesn't exist, do it yourself" mind-set but I'd love to just sit back and enjoy someone else's take on this pairing. :p
> 
> (I also just wanna know if this even makes sense to anyone else? lol Cause it does in my head, but that's no benchmark.)


	2. Frayed Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Frayed Taffeta gave more detail about Kusanagi's background, Frayed Lace delves into Fushimi's past relationships and how this new development differs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You read Frayed Taffeta. And you liked it enough to click “next chapter” and thus found your way to Frayed Lace. You’re wondering where on Earth this goes… Well… You should know: This whole fic is just one big experiment for me. How far can I take this pairing? How far can I twist and push the boundaries of the pre-conceived subtexts? How badly can I abuse the wedding metaphor (and other recurring motifs) before it gets painful?
> 
> Frankly, the answer might just be that Frayed Taffeta was the limit and this entire chapter is superfluous. You have been warned.
> 
> Also be warned that at this point, there’s probably going to be at least a third installment for closure and that this particular chapter has had to be filled in with disjointed world-building (“So fix it until it’s not disjointed!” you say, to which I respond: “No, cause this is really all just for kicks!”) and a totally different super random pairing because of the positioning of the timeline. For more (Izuhiko? Kusashimi? Kusahiko?) action, stay tuned for the post-RoK reunion in Frayed Velvet.

_Lamplight from the street streamed in to blanket them in a hazy glow. The TV screen they sat before was dark and lifeless but Fushimi stared at it anyway as Totsuka drew lazy patterns on his skin. He melted into the body behind him, putting aside the looming threats of guilt and self-loathing for just a little while longer. He was just so comfortable in Totsuka’s arms, sprawled on the floor with their backs up against the bed._

_The small apartment was carpeted and warm, and felt like a cozy little love nest. Fushimi was just glad they were on the floor and not the bed—that bed where he knew Mikoto slept as many nights as not._

_“Don’t move!”_

_The urgent whisper sent shivers up and down Fushimi’s spine._

_“What?” he hissed back._

_“A spider.” Totsuka breathed. He slid his fingers down one paralyzed arm until they curled between Fushimi’s own, joining their hands. Then he slowly guided those joint hands up towards Fushimi’s chest, folding them over a heart beating with just a little too much vigor._

_“Here,” Totsuka said. “Can you feel the cobwebs? Doubt, fear, disappointment… All those little threads woven into webs around your heart. It’s bad luck to kill spiders, but if we break the webs, it will have to find another home.”_

_Fushimi clutched at his own chest as Totsuka craned around to kiss him. His body twisted of its own volition and he met Totsuka’s lips in return._

_Lamplight that shone like the moon. Pale hair that sparkled with celestial glitter and mischievous eyes laced with shadows. Playful and provocative but ultimately sweet and tender._

_Shivering with a slight chill as he positioned his naked body, Fushimi realized in full that this was no longer stolen kisses and inviting touches. This wasn’t the experimentation he and Misaki had begun to engage in. This was a rite of passage._

_He eased himself down, taking responsibility for any pain upon himself and his own eagerness to get this initial crucible over and done with. He’d read and prepared… and imagined, and thought that was all it would be. He’d never thought this would really happen—not with the person he’d fantasized about, anyway._

_Totsuka was sweet and brilliant through it all. The light poured in through the window, hitting them from the side so that Fushimi’s shadow tapered away from Totsuka, leaving the young man aglow and mystical. Balanced against Totsuka’s palms—held up to his own and pressing toward him—fingers clasped and arms braced, Fushimi took a fluttering breath as he tried both to relax, and to steadily control the descent of his muscles at the same time._

_It never quite became comfortable but there was pleasure aplenty once Fushimi’s senses adjusted to the strangeness of being invaded. He had complete control over pace, positioning, and depth, and he used that to his advantage until he was straining for a twinkling of promise just out of reach. When he caught it, the result was magnificent, and Totsuka toppled amiably after him into the abyss of stars._

_In retrospect, it was probably an ambitious position for a beginner, but Totsuka looked so beautiful smiling up at him with encouraging eyes and cheeks flushed red with desire. So alive. Totsuka was always so alive._

*

Except when he wasn’t.

Of all those feline-like men in Fushimi’s life, none had been as whimsical and spontaneous as the one that just up and decided to claim him one night. Despite having fooled around a bit with his boyfriend at the time, that experience was his first time in the most fundamental way. It broadened his sense of the world, but it also changed his sense of self for a long time.

Traitor.

Betrayer.

Adulterer.

Not only did he cheat on his own boyfriend, but he did so with the man who was the beloved of his king. Later, Totsuka swore that Mikoto wouldn’t care, that Mikoto liked for him to feel free. It didn’t matter. Fushimi had still betrayed his king at heart—and Misaki.

The feelings associated with that experience were bitter and regretful… but the memory of the experience itself was another matter. There was no way Fushimi could look back on it without fondness.

He’d do it again if given the choice. The memory was worth it. It was one of the few pure memories Fushimi had treasured enough to retain and it had only grown even more precious when Totsuka was gone. He retained a sense of gladness that he had allowed himself that one night while Totsuka was still in the world—no matter how the knowledge of it might have hurt Misaki or infuriated Mikoto if they had known.

There were memories like that with Misaki, too. Ideal moments when Fushimi had swelled with pride that this adorable, chaotic fur ball chose him to be with. Misaki had been his first in many things, and he had also been the first to bestow his trust upon Fushimi by sharing his body in the same way Fushimi had once done with Totsuka. That first time taking Misaki was another special memory—as was the last. One last, beautiful night with his hands cupped around a fresh handful of pretty, colored sand; fingers pressed tightly together to keep it from slipping away until he couldn’t hold that pose any longer. Some might call such an act selfish but it had been as much for Misaki as it was for him. Misaki just hadn’t known it would be the last.

Now Fushimi had one more beautiful memory to add to the list. The exotic spice and dash of danger that was more of tiger than of cat was just one aspect of his night with Kusanagi that stood out. It was, however, the aspect that Fushimi chose to remember. If he dwelled too much on the rest… The loving, tender looks and endearing caresses; the fierce loyalty and unconditional understanding…

What good came of thinking of such things? If he let himself remember those, then he would only want more of them. Wanting what he couldn’t have would only destroy him. Kusanagi was a memory to be cherished, but nothing more than a memory.

Passion was a thing Fushimi could remember with fond enjoyment rather than bittersweet pangs of painful longing. So that was what he held onto while every moment he spent amongst the Green clan was another tick of the clock closer to the completion of his mission—and his inevitable demise.

He just hoped Kusanagi didn’t take it too hard when he was gone. Whether or not that last night with Misaki had been cruel or kind was a matter open to interpretation, but Fushimi knew this first and last time with Kusanagi was horridly selfish of himself. If it had just been sex, it wouldn’t have mattered much, but it wasn’t. There was so much more wrapped up in that encounter than an exchange of bodily fluids and mutual gratification. The emotional and mental bond Fushimi had felt wasn’t just his imagination; he knew Kusanagi had been wound up in it, too.

If he’d known it would be like that, would Fushimi have walked away before things went too far? Or would he still have been selfish and given Kusanagi a taste of what he was about to lose? Is it selfishness if you are the fool who suffers heartbreak knowing what can never happen because of what must?

What had Fushimi always told Misaki when his teenaged boyfriend had whined and begged to take in a stray?

_“Having pets is a huge commitment. You can’t just take them in and then leave them to fend for themselves when they get inconvenient. Once you commit to a pet, you have a responsibility to look after it. It wouldn’t be a kindness for us to take on a burden we can’t see through to the end.”_

Life really would be easier if Fushimi could just follow his own good advice once in a while.

*

The thing about lace is that it’s all full of holes. Coasters made out of lace doilies are pointless. The counter is still gonna get wet—all they do is muffle the clunky sound of a glass hitting the counter. Shawls and parasols made out of lace might look pretty but the sun’s still gonna shine right through those holes and burn little red splotches into your skin.

There’s only one thing lace is really good for: wedding veils.

Memories are just like lace. Pretty and pure but full of holes. Memories look good on the surface but they don’t have much substance and certain things will leak through the gaps and mess you up if you’re not careful.

That was why Fushimi wasn’t going to be a memory. Kusanagi wouldn’t let it come to that. The lace veil of memories would do for now; it would serve its purpose in obfuscating the reality of Fushimi’s absence and for a while it would be a make-shift shield from whatever fear tried to leak into Kusanagi’s soul—but it wouldn’t last for long.

Fushimi had better not stand him up at the altar.

The problem was, Kusanagi didn’t have the luxury of being able to hunt him down when the moment came. He was going to have to rely on a best man of sorts—a very complicated ex-lover-turned-mutual-friend-come-family kind of best man. The only one who could move fast enough to secure Fushimi’s safety and still complete the necessary formation that would result in the success of this crazy plan was Yata Misaki.

Frankly, it bothered Kusanagi a lot that he had to trust in someone else to make sure Fushimi’s kamikaze intentions got thwarted. However, since he had no choice, he was glad it was Yata-chan. If anyone could do it… If anyone else should do it… it was Yata-chan.

“Do you think it’s true?” the redhead mused, his chin in his hand as he watched Kusanagi wring out a soaked rag.

“Do you doubt the word of the Blue king?”

“What? No. That guy’s got a stick shoved so far up his ass there’s no wiggle-room for lies… but… It’s like he said. Saru could save himself by double-crossing him like he did us. He might do that, you know?”

Kusanagi childishly wanted to throw his wet rag at Yata’s head. He didn’t, but only because he knew Yata-chan knew better. The kid simply had to speak such doubts out loud to get them out of his system, or to save face. Now that he’d been given reason to believe in Fushimi, that was exactly what he would choose to do. That was just who he was.

As for Kusanagi, he knew without a doubt that Fushimi would carry his covert mission through to the end. If he had even considered double-crossing Munakata, he wouldn’t have been so sure of his impending death, and _that_ Kusanagi had read clearly in him. So there was no question in his mind of a last-minute wind-change.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Kusanagi said mildly, applying rag to counter and trying to remain unassuming.

“You really believe in him,” gasped Yata. The depth of emotion in that statement gave Kusanagi pause and he glanced up against his will. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re right. I don’t really believe he’d screw the Blues over… It’s just… I mean, I know why I believe in him but why do you? You never really seemed that close.”

Clearing his throat, Kusanagi spun away to search for a particular bottle. Without a word in response to Yata-chan, he set two shot glasses on top of the bar and poured them ¾ full with amaretto. The remaining quarter he topped up with 151 proof rum and then carefully placed each shot within a larger glass.

“What’cha doin’?” Yata asked, watching him curiously.

Kusanagi ignored him and concentrated on filling the outer glass right up to the brim of the shot with a good stout beer. He then pushed one toward Yata and drew the other toward himself.

“You’re… givin’ me a drink? I thought you disapproved of-”

“You’re going to save someone I care about, so I owe you the truth and then—if you agree—we’ll seal the deal HOMRA style.”

“Deal? What deal?”

“Yata, you and Fushimi are friends, yeah?”

“Hell no.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Ok, fine. Yeah. What about it?”

“You loved him once.”

“I guess. Kinda. I mean, yeah, I did, but that was a long time ago. What does it matter?”

“You’re really over him? You’re not gonna charge in there and save his ass and then expect him to come crawling back to you for it?”

“What? No! Look, I care about that shallow prick for reasons I don’t really get but they aint love, ok? We just got too much history to throw away, you know? If you’re worried about… I dunno, me getting hurt, or something…” Yata ground to a halt, staring at Kusanagi, his eyes slowly narrowing further and further. “That aint it, is it? You’re not worried about me…”

“Should I be?” It was a rhetorical question, so Kusanagi let it float for a moment, then addressed the elephant trying to squeeze its head in the door. “You and Fushimi, you were always real close. I respect that. I always did respect that.”

“Unlike Totsuka.”

“Unlike Totsuka.”

“But?”

“No buts. I still respect that, but you’re not the same people no more, and nor am I,” Kusanagi explained. He placed his hands flat down on the counter and blew out a breath. He hoped Yata would get it, but there was always the possibility of an explosion or two. That was just how HOMRA folk were. “I always liked Fushimi, y’know? Not like you did—and _not_ like Totsuka. He was just messin’ around, y’know?”

“Yeah. _I know._ ”

“Y’know, I never really get why you didn’t hate him for it…”

“’Cause who _wouldn’t_ be into it if Saru went around staring at ‘em like that? Besides, at least he was man enough to tell me ‘bout it. Saru still thinks I don’t know. Anyway, don’t change the subject. Just spit it out already. What’s this about, man?”

“Right. Here goes. Saruhiko is someone who thinks he’s better off alone and he needs someone who understands that and knows how to prove him wrong. I can be that man. I already have been that man once, and I intend to be again when he comes out of this alive. He’s gonna be a bit messed up, y’know? He’s gonna need someone patient and unassuming, and-”

“You and Saru!?” A caricature could not have been more comical. Yata’s jaw practically hit the bar and his eyes really were popping alarmingly, as if they might fall out if his lids separated just a little further. “Are you saying you… you…What the fuck!?”

“It was real recent,” Kusanagi said quietly, hoping to diffuse the potential incendiary situation with calm and rationale. “I didn’t step on your toes or nothing, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, whatever man, but… You and _Saru_!? Did you… Holy shit, did you guys screw?”

Was it entirely immature of him to feel a tick of anger at that term? Did Yata have a shred of romance in him? “I told you,” he said, as coldly as he was capable of. “I’m not messin’ around like Totsuka did. I care about him, Yata. I’m telling you this because it means something to me. I want you to understand and to be happy for him… and for me. You were good to him, but he’s been real lonely since then, and I know somethin’ ‘bout that. I won’t let him be lonely anymore. I won’t let him think he can just run off into danger and get himself killed because there’s no-one waiting for him to come home. He’s not gonna be a martyr in a sad story no more. He needs someone else to live for, and to take care of himself for, and that’s gonna be me. So I want your blessing, and we’re gonna drink to it.”

Clicking his fingers, Kusanagi pinpointed the liquor surfaces of both inner shot glasses, igniting a flame of deep purple as the intense heat that would usually burn blue mingled with his red aura. It burned for an unusually long time, courtesy of the unnatural source of the flame, and Yata stared at him, wordless and un-breathing until it finally burned out. Then, he grabbed up the glass and gulped at the beer. The shot clinked against the side of the glass and he slammed them both back at once, grimacing but drinking it all down admirably.

Smiling just a little, Kusanagi clinked his glass against the one tipped up over Yata’s face, and drank it down. He’d done this with Mikoto once, when they came to an understanding about Totsuka. He’d done it with Totsuka, too. Also with Rikio, after a discussion about his future with that sweet little thing his family had all but adopted for him. It was a ritual that gave Kusanagi peace of mind.

“What the fuck was that?” Yata wheezed, thumping down his glasses with an awful clatter.

He was already quite red in the face when Kusanagi slammed down his own, belatedly realizing he’d been so nervous he forgot to set coasters. He grinned at Yata. “It’s called a Flaming Dr. Pepper.”

“That does _not_ taste like Dr. Pepper! I _like_ Dr. Pepper! This shit tastes like a monkey’s ass!”

Laughing, Kusanagi couldn’t resist just one dig at the awkward triangle he’d created. “Not any monkey I’ve ever tasted,” he said with a wink.              

Yata-chan blanched. “Man, you… You really can’t go ‘round sayin’ shit like that or I might actually punch you in the face. Just outta reflex or somthin’.”

Feeling rather light-hearted about it all, Kusanagi really wanted to tease him some more because he knew they were both man enough to take it, but the joviality died down in him as he thought of the trial ahead. Squaring things with Yata-chan was the easy part. “Keep him breathing, Yata-chan. I’ll do the rest.”

“You want it? You got it. And you can have the hard part, man. I don’t envy you. Don’t think you can fob him off on me when you realize what a pain in the ass he is neither.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better best man,” Kusanagi responded, ignoring the fuss Yata kicked up at that quip.

*

_“You got something.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“On your forehead.”_

_“What!?”_

_Genuine laughter rippled out of Fushimi as he swiped his thumb firmly over the chocolate smudge. How on Earth it had gotten there he couldn’t even begin to fathom but it was so very_ Misaki _._

_“Don’t lick it!”_

_Making a face as Fushimi sucked the sweet offender off his thumb, Misaki scrubbed at his forehead, turning it red fast. Fushimi grabbed his wrist and then pressed his lips to the abraded skin._

_“Stop it.”_

_After a moment of hesitation, Fushimi pulled back. There was something in Misaki’s voice that said he meant business._

_If he kept glaring like that, Fushimi might start to feel a burning sensation on his own forehead, but what it wasn’t going to do was convey some kind of telepathic message like Misaki seemed to expect._

_“What’s up?” Fushimi asked eventually._

_“I don’t get it. You make me feel like I need you—like I’m the only one who needs you, cause you sure as hell don’t need me. Why are you with me, Saru? How come we’re together?”_

_The words stirred up old feelings of guilt but Fushimi squashed them down. It wasn’t like that. The thing with Totsuka… that hadn’t been about need, or dissatisfaction with Misaki, or anything like that. If anything, Misaki was the one who benefitted most from that gained experience. “What makes you think I don’t need you?” Of course he did. Why were they together? Because this relationship had become the only saving grace in Fushimi’s dim and dismal life. Misaki had become the one bright spark in his existence. It was only natural for them to be together—and if he gave Misaki reasons to need him, it was because he needed Misaki to need him. He couldn’t admit that in a million years, though. Or could he? “Someday,” he said, “You won’t need me anymore, and then I can die in peace.” Glibly. Oh so glibly. Let Misaki and everyone else believe he meant none of it._

_“Shut the fuck up!”_

_What the hell was he getting so emotional for? It was just a joke._

_Even Fushimi believed his own lie that he was joking, fabricating, glossing over the truth. So what the hell did Misaki have to get all sappy about?_

_“Kiss me, and make it good!”_

_That was more like it. Kissing was one way Fushimi knew how to communicate. Get Misaki kissing, and it would be smooth sailing right up until they hit the pillows and sank groggily into sleep half-entwined and too lazy to shower even though they really, really should._

*

Misaki had been too dependent on him, because he’d made him that way. Fushimi had become too dependent on Misaki being dependent on him, so he’d made himself change. Since parting from HOMRA, Fushimi had become the man he wanted to be: one who didn’t rely on anyone else.

He missed Misaki sometimes, but their little clashes here and there were enough to fill that void of loneliness that welled up with memories. He had been shocked and disturbed by Totsuka’s murder, but he had no right to feel as though he’d been left behind because he had already left Totsuka and the others a long time ago. He was independent enough that he could handle the passing of an old flame with little outward acknowledgement.

Some thought him cold for it, and they didn’t even know that Fushimi had once been closer to Totsuka than anyone had ever imagined. He wasn’t cold. He just couldn’t afford to be moved by losing something that was already in his past.

That was why Kusanagi had been a mistake. A big one. The moment the bartender stepped out of his past and into his present, Fushimi felt little tendrils of white light creeping about his limbs and tracing lazy patterns across his skin, beginning to bind him into a new sense of dependency.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how Kusanagi would feel when shit went down and Fushimi didn’t make it out alive. Sometimes, he even began to wonder if there wasn’t some way he _could_ make it out alive; not because he wasn’t committed to the very end, but because it was his fault that someone was actually going to miss him.

He wasn’t thick. He knew Munakata would mourn him if the king somehow made it through this with his Sword of Damocles intact. He knew Awashima and the others would be devastated if they learned that he had been a double-agent after all, and had given his life in service of Sceptre 4. He knew, too, that they would get over it. They had things to live for that wouldn’t be greatly disturbed by the absence of one colleague, however respected—or even liked in some strange cases.

Kusanagi… Fushimi was afraid he might not have that. He had Anna, and the gang, and he cherished them, sure… but there was something Fushimi sensed in him—he needed the kind of love both he and Fushimi had been denied all this time. If only they’d both realized a little sooner that they might have found it together. Now, Fushimi could see that potential and he was afraid that Kusanagi could, too, because it was too late for potential. Squandered potential was nothing to celebrate. It was going to hurt, and there was nothing Fushimi could do about that.

Unless he could somehow survive.

But the odds of that were phenomenally low. It was better to just accept it, really.

So when Nagare threw him a line, Fushimi refused to think of Kusanagi because the only thing worse than leaving him behind in this world, would be remaining in it and proving him wrong—proving that Fushimi really was a traitor. Just this once, he wanted to be worthy of someone’s faith in him. Just this once. Even if it meant hurting him.

_What did you think was going to happen?_

Those words came to him, a beautiful memory but also ironic. What did he think was going to happen? That he was going to redeem himself by staying true to his values? It was a stupid thought.

Too late, now, though. Tsukuna _really_ wanted to kill him.

In retrospect, it would have made a lot of sense to just let the child reaper cut him down and be done with it. It would have been a quick and easy death, and he wouldn’t have had to go through all the pain and desperation of the ensuing battle.

Before Kusanagi, that would have been an option. Now, he was obligated to try—try, even if he didn’t believe in a positive outcome.

To think it was Misaki who came charging in after him. What had he hoped, that Kusanagi would show up, click his fingers, and save the day? What a stupid, fairy-tale dream.

It might just be that all that emotional bullshit he’d been stewing over for days was just in his head. He’d projected his own wants and needs onto Kusanagi and let himself believe it was real.

Still, even if Kusanagi didn’t depend on his survival, there was one idiot who wanted Fushimi to make it out of there badly enough to get in the way of his execution. It might not be so bad going out beside Misaki—or living to apologize another day. If he did make it out, he was going to have to finally confess about Totsuka, and hell, he’d have to be honest about Kusanagi, too. Totsuka was easier. It was less complicated now that he was gone.

“You’re late,” he complained, slung over Misaki’s scrawny shoulder like a sack of rice.

It was easy, arguing like always. It was comfortable. A different kind of ease and comfort to the intimacy he’d shared with Kusanagi, but it was good all the same.

Hard not to compare them, though. After all, Kusanagi _had_ guessed Fushimi’s true intentions. By the sounds of it, Misaki really hadn’t had a clue.

Consciousness was slippery and while arguing with Misaki kept him from going under, he lost track at times as to what they were even arguing about. Misaki didn’t even know about Totsuka so when Fushimi thought of his love affair and affirmed himself a traitor it probably went right over his head. Too many threads, laced around them but never pulling tight enough to be clearly delineated.

Then there was Tsukuna. Sitting up under his own power revived Fushimi’s focus somewhat and he returned in full to the present—enough to be able to clearly see the difference between who he had been and who he was now. It was right there in front of him as Tsukuna advocated playing solo and Fushimi felt sorry for him.

All that independence he had cherished… Fushimi felt sorry for himself.

So when he sent Misaki off to do his damn job properly, it wasn’t because he was trying to cling to that independence. It was because Misaki wasn’t the one he needed to need him anymore. If he did make it out… There was someone else he would have to come to terms with his need for.

He could hope, though. As it turned out, he had more of that in him than he’d thought.

*

There was no room for distraction. They had a hell of a miracle to pull off here. Kusanagi’s personal miracle would have to wait.

He felt it, though, the tension. It was like a veil sitting lightly upon his face, slightly manipulating his field of vision but not enough that he couldn’t focus on his surroundings.

A small part of him wondered if he had done the right thing, encouraging Yata-chan to put Saruhiko’s safety before the completion of their vital chain, but Anna had been supportive and Yata himself needed little urging. Kusanagi wasn’t the only one draped in distracting lace.

When the message that Saruhiko was safe reached him, Kusanagi felt the veil lift at last. Win or lose this battle, the wedding was on, whether Saru liked it or not.

*

_Can you feel the cobwebs? Doubt, fear, disappointment… All those little threads woven into webs around your heart. It’s bad luck to kill spiders, but if we break the webs, it will have to find another home._

How long had that spider lived in him, weaving new webs whenever he slashed through the old ones? Lacy patterns coating his heart with negativity and shuttering out the light little by little until all of the detritus of torn threads built up to block out the sun entirely.

One look; one momentary, silent discourse with Kusanagi Izumo, and it seemed so simple. There was only one way to clear the frayed and broken webs. They had to be burnt off.

Good thing Fushimi knew someone with a flair for pyrotechnics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No Munakata Reisi's got burned in the writing of this fic. (Why am I so mean to him when writing HOMRA? lol I love Reisi. Really!)
> 
> Anyway, I think my favorite part of this chapter is the Flaming Dr. Pepper scene. Kusanagi demanding Yata's blessing and then teasing him... It wrote so naturally.
> 
> I might also have to steal that spiderweb line for my novel. Don't ever let anyone tell you writing fanfiction is a waste of time. ;)


	3. Frayed Velvet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to skip over the opening song but it was an oddly large part of my inspiration for this fic.  
> It's from the musical: I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change
> 
> Please enjoy this final chapter!

_Well, I've walked down the aisle_

 

_As much as Liz Taylor_

_But I've always stood off to the side._

_Each bride has me dressed_

_In a gown I detest;_

_Always a bridesmaid, never a bride._

_For Caitlin, I wore satin_

_Which I looked really fat in._

_Then again, you should have seen her man Ken;_

_All those calories he logged up_

_Til his arteries clogged up._

_He died on the couch watching ESPN._

_Too many weddings, too many dresses_

_That all make my hips look so wide._

_Not a gown I'd reuse,_

_Ditto the matching shoes;_

_Always a bridesmaid,_

_Never a bride._

_For Tabitha, I wore taffetta_

_You should never, people laugh at ya,_

_But I had a hunch her marriage was doomed._

_The groom tried to stroke me_

_While we danced the Hokey Pokey._

_They divorced before the honeymoon._

_Once, my gown was velourish,_

_Made me look kind of whorish,_

_But my best friend Delores_

_Was never quite sane._

_She shot her new mister_

_Cuz he bedded her sister._

_He's not dead, but now he walks like John Wayne._

_Too many weddings, too many dresses,_

_That all make my hips look so wide._

_My friends can't assess_

_A man or a dress._

_Always a bridesmaid,_

_Never a bride._

_When I look in my closet,_

_There's a rainbow deposit_

_Of gowns so grotesque that I groan._

_All those husbands are gone_

_But those dresses live on,_

_Even moths seem to leave them alone._

_Too many weddings, too many messes,_

_But at least I've hung on to my pride._

_I've lived life alone, but the terms are my own._

_Always a bridesmaid, (thank you Lord!)_

_Never a bride!_

 

A pair of open palms slammed down on two openings upon the varnished wooden border of a carved and cluttered desk, seemingly cleared of documents and debris for the express purpose. A week ago, that desk would have begun to smolder and there would be charred, black hand prints to contend with. Now, the only effect was a loud smack, but it achieved its end, gaining the attention of the man who had fallen face-first into a stack of papers, his fingers twitching around the pen he still held.

“Wake. Up.”

The door ricocheted off the wall as it was slammed open. “Captain! He-”

Quick to regain his faculties, Munakata raised his right hand in a gesture of command. “It’s quite all right, Lieutenant. Let’s hear our friend out.”

With a glare that said he was no friend of hers, Seri moved to stand by her captain in a show of solidarity, arms folded and icy eyes trained on the object of her displeasure. For once, he didn’t much care.

“Which one,” began Izumo in a low and dangerous voice, “Of these papers…” He gestured at the condensed forest inhabiting the captain’s desk, “Authorizes the release of a double agent wrongly imprisoned for a traitor?”

Munkata leaned back in his gilded chair, no doubted padded to glorious comfort to facilitate long hours lording over civilians and subordinates alike. His fingers came together at the tips and he surveyed Izumo with a look of deep interest.

“Hardly ‘imprisoned,’” contested the captain. “Fushimi-kun is under detention, yes, but at one of the best hospitals this country has to offer, receiving top-class medical care for his wounds and enjoying some well-earned bed-rest, unlike the rest of my subordinates who are working around the clock to round up those momentary Kings and clansmen invoked in the slate’s final hours. Ask any of my men and he will tell you that Fushimi-kun has the better deal.”

Trickling a steady flow of sarcasm, Izumo turned his stare upon Seri to ask exactly that. “Is that so? Did Fushimi have the ‘better deal’ when he stabbed out another little chunk of his by heart turning his knives on us—on you? Did he have the better deal when he went willingly to a death he all-but-welcomed because he couldn’t live with himself for what he did in the name of his captain? Did he have the better deal when-”

“That’s enough, Izumo.” There was a softness and understanding in Seri’s eyes that looked out of place viewed together with that uniform and the stiff posture. It was a look reserved for late nights, martinis, and feminine curls of hair draping artfully over her cheeks. “How long have you known?”

“Longer than you!” Izumo snapped. “This isn’t right,” he added, zeroing back in on his primary target, his voice cracking with emotion. “You might think you’re sparing him or some backward-logic horse shit like that, but those guys up there?” He pointed to the ceiling, referencing the politicians who pulled Sceptre 4’s strings. “The longer you delay his pardon, the stronger their case for a scapegoat.”

“You arrogant, pigheaded-”

“Enough, Lieutenant.”

“He doesn’t have a clue-”

“Leave us.”

The battle fought within the woman over disobeying a direct order was rather amusing to behold. It was short-lived, though. She snapped to a salute and then departed with an affirmative and one last withering look at Izumo.

The captain sighed, assuming a calculated posture of relaxation and waving a loose hand after her. “Believe me when I say you’re dodging a rain of bullets with that one.”

The obvious implication that Munakata knew of Izumo’s feelings for Seri was supposed to be some kind of ice-breaker but Izumo wasn’t interested in ice right now, only in flames. It was a good thing he had none left, or he would be self-immolating right now.

“He went in there, expecting… planning to die. You did that. You made it a suicide mission—shut up! I don’t care how he got out. It was a suicide mission, and you know it. He went in there knowing he was going to die, and he welcomed it because you let him! You sent him in there, knowing he had nothing—no-one—to come back out for.”

The captain observed him with far too much compassion and a good deal of suspicion in the mix. “I had hoped,” he ventured, “That a certain skateboard-wielding delinquent would provide that incentive.”

“Then obviously you don’t know Fushimi as well as you think. Once he puts something behind him, it stays put. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t coming back. He was already a corpse; walking, talking, and playing out his last orders, but far as he knew, he was already gone.”

The last thing Izumo had expected of this meeting was to witness what he did then. A series of trembles began in the man’s lips and around his eyes until he lost the fight and twin pools of tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks with rapid efficiency.

“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching under his glasses to pinch his leaking eyelids with long fingers, and still unable to stem the flow. When it calmed some, he forced a difficult admission through his constricted throat, still pressing upon tightly shuttered eyes, denying the emotion that had ahold of him. “Whatever you did… However, whenever you found him… Thank you.”

At first, the show of emotion numbed Izumo, then it mollified him some, but as it continued, it began to re-stoke his anger. It was that last expression of gratitude that did it.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he growled. “I didn’t do it so you could lock him up and keep abusing him, or to take away your guilt, or-”

“Fushimi-kun is under protection,” Munakata stated dully, the flow of his tears finally stemmed. His damp fingers fell lifelessly to the desk with a thud and he stared straight ahead, looking more tired than Kusanagi had ever imagined possible of him. “The security is not in place to keep him in, but to keep others out. The charges are there to support his cover story.” Dragging his eyes up to meet Izumo’s, the captain pleaded with a look, where his voice remained a drained monotone. “Members of JUNGLE are still on the loose—dangerous men with skills beyond the powers they once wielded. One, at least, knows of Fushimi’s betrayal. If they come after him… Especially now, when he’s hurt and vulnerable…”

Damn it all to hell but every word made sense. Izumo not only believed it, he even felt pitifully grateful that the captain cared enough to put on such a show—and to tell him the truth now.

It was a hard thing to admit when one was wrong, but it was Izumo’s policy never to try and hold on to mistaken conviction. He made a fist and bared his teeth, closing his eyes against the unsavory truth of his mistake for just one moment. “Forgi-”

“Kusanagi-san, have you ever considered taking HOMRA into the personal protection industry?”

“I… What?”

“Sceptre 4 is rather short-staffed, at present. For one thing, it takes several men to accomplish what Fushimi-kun alone was capable of and with so many personnel expending their efforts out of the field, I am hard-pressed to find the manpower to guard our assets. It occurs to me that our rather extensive budget might be best put to use in hiring bodyguards for such assets. It’s not such a far cry from your current line of income.”

That was the craziest… “You want to put Fushimi under the protection of HOMRA?” thing Kusanagi had ever heard.

“ _Your_ protection.”

The captain’s emphasis was unmistakable. The subtle nod he afforded the bartender held a world of communication; respect, friendship, trust, and even a touch of jealousy that didn’t belong.

“The charges will be dropped?”

“As soon as he’s healed up and able to leave the hospital.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

*

It was harder than he’d thought. As a memory, Bar HOMRA was full of good and bad moments, both a little dulled around the edges. He could see them clearly still, but he could no longer feel what he had felt at those times. As a reality, one in which he physically stood, breathing in the pungent air full of spirits and smoke, Bar HOMRA brought things Fushimi would rather not feel again rushing back.

It wasn’t just about Misaki or even Totsuka and the respective trials of relationships he had gone through in this place. It wasn't even about Mikoto and the guilt-wracked decision to leave the king he had sworn himself to. The general struggles of his life in the period in which he had been a part of HOMRA threatened to drag him back to an emotional place where he didn’t want to be.

He could hear them downstairs, his former clan members. They knew he was there. They knew he knew they were there. They knew he knew they knew he was there. Everyone knew that his staying upstairs in the dark by himself instead of going down to greet them and catch up after so long was a blatant rejection of their company and whatever ties they might imagine remained. Still, they left him to his own devices as he hoped.

Munakata thought himself real clever. Hell, he was; just not where real human emotions were concerned.

The logic of it all fell into place, from the present circumstances stemming from his necessary incarceration all the way back to Fushimi’s scripted betrayal. Every move made sense; at least, they did in Fushimi’s head.

It was his heart that betrayed him.

He had changed. When he had gone into JUNGLE, he would have done anything for Munakata; silently and grudgingly, but he would have done it. Munakata had been the man he loved and more, he had been Fushimi's one and only true King. Now, he wasn’t quite either.

All the pain and guilt Fushimi had expected to shed along with his mortal coil, he experienced in full and the trail of those emotions led back to Munakata. He could no longer love the man who had sent him into JUNGLE, a traitor and a spy—not as he had. Furthermore, those feelings he had once felt had begun to flow in another direction, finding themselves a new destination to call home. No matter that he meant to forget the night that drifted in his memories like an oasis of dreams enveloped in an overwhelming nightmare; he could not. It was burned into his mind and still seemed to smolder and grow, burning up more territory despite all the ice Fushimi tried to douse it with.

 

The trouble was, he’d almost run out of ice. He’d used it all up in his struggle within JUNGLE, turning himself as cold as a glacier to fit in. He would never confess to anyone just how difficult that had actually been for him.

 

The thing was… he suspected he wouldn’t have to. There was one person who knew. Somehow, he’d always known. He stood in the doorway now, watching Fushimi without saying a word. There wasn’t much to see, but what there was, he saw—all of it.

“When it’s over—when the remaining JUNGLE terrorists are dealt with—you won’t have to stay,” he said after a while. “There are no clans anymore; no Blue, no Red, no Green. There’s nothing tying you to Scepter 4 that isn’t within your control.” 

Fushimi grit his teeth. He didn’t know why the implication made him feel angry but it did. “But you’re here at HOMRA so I should come crawling back? It’s that simple?”

“No.” The solid negative was unexpected and Fushimi’s guts un-clenched in reaction. “You don’t belong here.”

The tension eased but it did so as a pinprick of sadness bled and welled within Fushimi because he knew he could not stay long at HOMRA. It wasn’t an option for him. “But you do.”

“I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

The strong hands that came down on his shoulders were warming and full of promises Fushimi wasn’t yet ready to believe. He didn’t move a muscle.

“Are you saying you would leave? Drop the business, abandon everyone-”

Kusanagi’s hands caressed his arms from shoulder to elbow, then circled into an embrace around Fushimi’s person. He spoke close to Fushimi’s ear as if the proximity would inspire more faith, and in a way, it did.

 

“I’m saying it doesn’t have to be HOMRA or nothing. I own this place. I don’t have to be here tending it.” Shocked at the very thought of a HOMRA without Kusanagi, Fushimi broke free of his hold and spun to face him, but his might-be lover just kept talking in a quick, quiet voice that wouldn’t travel beyond the closed door. “The kids will stick with Anna when she leads them out of the underground into a world less dangerous for regular folk with regular street smarts. She has an idea, already, but she hasn’t realized she doesn’t need me for it.” At last, he paused, and his need to get the words out gave way to a sadness that was deeper and wider than Fushimi had ever suspected. “My world was Mikoto’s world; gangs and black markets and wildfire. I don’t belong where they’ll end up.”    

 

How could he ignore the plea in those beautiful, soulful eyes? This was why he hated dogs. “Where do you belong, then?” he pressed, while he could still manage an iota of resistance.

A small smirk appeared at one corner of Kusanagi’s lips, and Fushimi’s eyes were drawn to it, relieved to see it break through the disturbing darkness that had taken such a strong hold so quickly. The fact that he had the power to birth that glint of amusement gave Fushimi a little thrill of happiness and he marveled at how easily he could be manipulated by this man.

“That’s a good question. It’ll depend on what resources I can leverage in the form a partner.”

Wary, Fushimi searched his face for a clue as to where this was leading. “What kind of skills are you looking for?”

Shifting first one hip forward, then the other, Kusanagi sidled right up to Fushimi and placed his hands on two slight hip bones, drawing them in. “Well, I’ve got connections and a knack for sniffing out the truth. With a tech-savvy hacker to team up with, I reckon I could give the detective industry a run for its money.”   

“You and me... Following cheating wives and tracking down lost pets.” Even as he scoffed, Fushimi had to admit to himself that it wasn’t entirely preposterous.

“Following un-pinnable murderers and tracking down stolen, priceless jewels.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“Always have been.”

It would have been the perfect moment for a kiss, but Kusanagi hesitated far too long and then finally shattered it with a laden word intended to lead into heavier discussions.

“Saruhiko-”

“Not yet,” Fushimi pre-empted.

Kusanagi sighed. “You don't wanna have no serious talks. I get that, I do.” It was amazing how swiftly he could change tracks, pulling Fushimi tightly against him and whispering into his ear. “I don't much like talking either when there's other things I could be doing with my tongue.”

It was a dangerous instant and Fushimi intentionally neglected to breathe so that he could react to the pending danger in heartbeat. It didn't come crashing down on him even though he waited, so he opened his mouth and spoke words that threatened to gut him. “So it is just sex then.” Silence. “Or, it was... or would be, if we-”

“I guess we're talking.” There was that inviting tone, mildly tinged with a hint of weariness. Kusanagi's sexy voice paired with just enough cynicism to remind that they were birds of a feather in some ways made it hard for Fushimi to resent that he had been manipulated yet again. “That's fine, too."

“No!” Fushimi backed away, hitting the window ledge. “Not now,” he insisted. “I'm not ready. I just-”

Kusanagi shrugged, not making any advances. “One question, one answer. That's all. I mean, you asked it.”

After a deep breath, Fushimi figured he could deal with that much. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

He expected a light, frivolous tone with a semi-deep answer that would give him something to think on but Kusanagi looked him straight in the eyes and spoke without a shred of amusement in his expression. “It's everything but.”

“Huh?” What was he talking about? What was the question again?

 

“It's not just sex, Saruhiko. It's everything else. Everything but that.”

 

His smoky voice, a product of late nights, nicotine abuse, and an ungodly amount of spirits, was like a cloak of velvet wrapping about Fushimi's skin, frayed in all the right places, and all the more fascinating for the rough patches.

 

Against his instinct to swoon and lay down his soul for the taking, Fushimi defaulted to the spite that had protected him for so long as a last resort. “I should have known you'd have the perfect line. Did you prepare that, or did it just drip off your tongue like honey?”

 

Shaking his head, Kusanagi closed the distance and wrapped him up tight. “I won't let you do it. I won't let you run away. I'm not giving you that chance.” His voice took on a growl that tugged at Fushimi’s loins. “We can talk now, or we can fuck. Either way, you'll figure out I mean business.” Not giving up any closeness, Kusanagi craned his neck back so that their eyes could meet despite the proximity, and he held Fushimi’s chin up in his hand. “The only thing that's not gonna happen is that I walk out the door and go back to pretending I aint achin' to be with you. Either we can talk and I'll kick 'em all out right now, and we can get comfy at the bar with a bottle of red, or we can fuck, and I don't give a damn if they stay down there and jack off to your screams or bugger off like good little boys.”

Hell, he was really convincing. “Izumo…”  
   
Velvet, ash, and untamed roses. “Choose, love, or I will.”  
   
“Shit," Fushimi breathed, feeling a prick of tears unshed. "It was real… And it still is, isn't it? Is there... really anything to talk about?”  
“Not if we let our bodies do the talking.”  
   
There was really nothing for it after that but to let their lips come together hard and express everything that had yet to be spoken or even thought. It was better that way… so much better. Deliciously better.  
   
Izumo was a living override.  
   
_Run. Run now. Disable the enemy by targeting his weak points and make a swift, tactical retreat._  
   
That voice was as loud and clear within Fushimi as it had ever been, and yet, he simply ignored it. He heard it--echoingly--but was unaffected by the usual compulsion.  
   
He let his head tilt back, his body melding against Kusanagi's, supported by arms as sturdy as aged oak. He felt safe, and that made no sense to him, which terrified him.  
   
Fire kissed his jaw and spread down his throat at the command of Kusanagi's lips. Fushimi bared his neck, staring into the dark.  
   
"Why didn't you come for me?" he asked, finally feeling confident enough to voice the question that had plagued him throughout his captive convalescence. "When we took down JUNGLE, why was it Misaki? Why didn't you come?"  
   
Dropping to his knees, Kusanagi was still tall enough to rest his forhead against Fushimi's sternum, his arms circling into a loose hold around the younger man's hips. He paused a long time before answering.  
   
"I wanted you to live. Yatta was the only one fast enough to make it."  
   
"And to get to his post after that," Fushimi reasoned.  
   
He understood. After all, he had been willing to lay down his life for what they achieved that day. However, when Kusanagi raised his face, his eyes were full of despair.  
   
"I had to choose," he said, velvet voice rough with unexpressed grief.   
   
"Of course you did. Choosing the mission was correct."  
   
"Wrong. I chose _you_. I sent Yatta, knowing he might fail to make it to his post in time, knowing he might go down in the fight. I sent him anyway, cuz I can live in a world with clans or without, but I'm through living in a world without love."  
   
Before Fushimi could stumble over an answer to that emotional flash grenade, Kusanagi threw him by swiftly dismantling his trappings. Before he knew what was happening, his pants were around his ankles and his dick held loosely in a softly calloused hand.  
   
"You can't just..."  
   
Sure he could.  
   
Kusanagi probably would have said something along those lines if he wasn't stuffing his mouth with a rapidly growing erection. He went right to work, coaxing Fushimi's manhood to thrilling, vital life.   
   
As it happened, Fushimi had been on the verge of being ready for that talk they weren't supposed to be having. Now all he could do about it was divide and split his brainpower so that a portion of it could set to work on puzzling out and untangling the snarled mess of emotional baggage Kusanagi was now working rather diligently to distract him from.   
   
The rest of his brain was having a much easier time of it, giving over completely to the onslaught of sensation. Again, that image of roughened velvet came to mind as slick cheeks and wet lips slid up and down his length, contrasted by the coarser caress of rough taste buds like a match trying to strike against the underside of his cock. Beautifully soft hair tumbled over his fingers, which had buried deeply into the threads of spun gold at some point.  
   
Come to think of it, when had he been backed up against the open window? He was half leaning out of it now as he arched back, perfectly visible to anyone below in the street who happened to be looking straight up.  
   
That had probably happened around the time he had begun to understand that the hidden sensation he had felt lurking behind the confusion when Munakata had prodded him into Bar HOMRA and released his handcuffs...was anticipation. At the time, he had filed it under relief but that wasn't it at all. It wasn't just that Kusanagi hadn't come for him when they took down JUNGLE but that he didn't come and find Fushimi afterward, that he didn't seek for them to be alone and to face what had occurred between them.  
   
He had, though, hadn't he? It was suddenly abundantly clear to Fushimi that Kusanagi hadn't abandoned him for a second. How many times had he called on Munakata and requested, pleaded, demanded that Fushimi be released? The result was that Fushimi was now in Kusanagi's care. Munakata had been so convinced of his resolve that he chose to entrust Fushimi's life to him.  
   
Slowly and gently, Fushimi's eyes welled with tears that would no longer be denied. His hands slipped from golden hair to pale cheeks, cradling them until Kusanagi tilted his head back and looked up into his blurring eyes. The insides of his lenses were splashed with tears and the view grew even more warped and distorted.  
   
"Can we just skip the foreplay?" Fushimi asked.  
   
He didn't want it. He didn't need it. Not right now.  
   
He could not be more ready, physically, mentally, and emotionally, to be with the man he could finally admit (secretly) to having fallen idiotically in love with.  
   
"You sure? Cause there's this thing I do with my tongue that I haven't shown you yet and I'm pretty sure you'll be real into it."  
   
"Fuck your damn tongue."  
   
"Other way 'round."  
   
"Izumo, work with me here."  
   
"Why?"  
   
"Don't make me say it."  
   
"Yeah, I will. 'Cause you want to. I can tell. So... Why?"  
   
"Because I love you, you stubborn, dramatic whore of a-"  
   
The next thing Fushimi knew, he was on the floor under the window sill, only his fingers curling up over the edge to be seen from the street below. Kusanagi was smooth, that was for sure. Just like that, he found himself raised atop the older man's knees, his own spread wide to either side and the wall and a solid chest sandwiching him upright.  
   
"Thank you," Kusanagi whispered. "Thank you for saying it."  
   
"You already knew it," Fushimi breathed, stunned by the gratitude he saw in those pretty, hazel eyes.  
   
"I know it was hard for you... so I needed you to say it."  
   
Try as he might to resent that statement, Fushimi understood it all too well. After so much time on the outside looking in it was hard to believe in his instincts; the ones that told him he was safe, he was loved, and he wasn't alone anymore.  
   
"I love you," he stated simply, both for Kusanagi's sake and for his own. "It wasn't just that night. I think I always did."  
   
"I..."  
   
"I always fall for guys who are in love with other people. We've covered that. But you know what? They were always the safer options."  
   
"What do you mean?"  
   
"I mean, I could live with it. I wished it were otherwise but I could bear the loneliness." Licking his lips, Fushimi took a deep breath. "You loved Mikoto since before we even met. How could I ever have competed with that? How could I have ever let myself fall for you? And yet, how could I stop it? It's always been there. I just couldn't afford to see it."  
   
His fingers brushing Fushimi's temple, Kusanagi pushed a fall of brown hair back from a blue eye. He studied the look in Fushimi's eyes very closely.  
   
"Why didn't we realize sooner?" he asked, a note of helpless regret in his voice.  
   
Fushimi shook his head. "What good would it have done while he was alive? Even if you knew how I felt..."  
   
"Maybe," Kusanagi conceded, but there was a surprising measure of doubt in his voice. "But Saru...Maybe Mikoto was as much my true love as he was your true King. Maybe what I felt for him was the love of my King, the same as you've felt for Munakata. Maybe..."  
   
"Enough. It doesn't matter. I'm alive and you're alive and we have each other here and now. I'm done questioning it. Kiss me, and this time, no stopping to chat."  
   
For someone who hadn't wanted to talk, Fushimi thought he had done rather well, but he had his limits. There was only so much emotion he could process at once. He needed to filter it; to dilute it with other feelings. He needed the physicality he'd been promised.  
   
"...Not like this."  
   
"...Are you kidding me!?"  
   
Fushimi was naked, ready, willing, open, and in place. All Izumo had to do was line up his godforsaken cock and ram it in. What could possibly we worth any further delay?  
   
"I wanna do right by you, Saru. I can do better than a cold floor and a hard wall. We'll-"  
   
Fushimi growled and shoved Kusanagi down. He plunked himself atop a flat abdomen fluctuating with deep breaths.  
   
The position brought back a memory: impaling himself on his first lover, down on the floor instead of in a bed. That bed... had been reserved for someone else.  
   
_I chose you. I can live in a world with clans or without, but I'm through living in a world without love._  
   
He wanted this. He wanted to consummate everything that had come to fruition between them in the here and now... but it wasn't just about what he wanted, anymore. Being with someone... being in love someone... that meant honoring what they wanted, too.  
   
He stared down at Kusanagi, reading everything in those dopey dog eyes. No secrets. All the truth was there for the taking.  
   
If Fushimi forced his hand, he would go along with it... but it would hurt him. He'd been through his own hells of loneliness and neglect. What he wanted from Fushimi was an end to the harmful spiral.  
   
What Fushimi wanted... was tabacco kisses, gin breath, awful Kansai twang, and a heart so big he could drown in it. What he wanted... was Kusanagi Izumo.  
   
Knowing that--at last--he slowly rose, holding out his hand for Kusanagi once he was on his feet. They stood there, eyeing one-another warily.  
   
"There's a bed right through that door," Kusanagi pointed out a moment later, through a grin he couldn't suppress.  
   
"Then what the hell are you waiting for?" Fushimi complained.  
   
He hated giving ground to anyone. It was the one thing he loathed more than anything else.  
   
The next thing he knew, gravity was battling for him with a rush of vertigo as he was swung up into surprisingly strong arms. He turned his reflexive instinct to throw a bunch into a grab for Kusanagi's shoulder to stabilize himself. Panic receeded quickly and he hooked his other arm about the bartender's neck.  
   
"What are you doing?" he gasped, oddly breathless.  
   
"Carrying you over the threshold of your new life!"  
   
Whatever it was about that concept that made Kusanagi brim with glee, Fushimi didn't get it... but he'd never seen such a look on this man's face before and it stole his resistance clear away.  
   
"Well, get on with it then," he muttered, gazing up at that radiant face from his awkward angle.  
   
With one heft to readjust, Kusanagi did just that.   
   
*  
   
There was no description for how it felt to carry a willing (if grudging) Fushimi in his arms. Izumo had lived in fear and anger for long enough. The anxiety of the last few hours was hardly an improvement... but the second he saw Fushimi waiting there for him so very patiently...  
   
He could have showered, could have gone to bed or busied himself online... but he simply stood there, waiting for Izumo. The kicker was, Fushimi didn't even know that that was what he had been doing.  
   
If Fushimi's choice had been to dismiss Izumo's wishes and make like beasts right there on the floor, it would have been hard for him to accept, but he would have done. That Fushimi, of all people, had capitulated for his sake...  
   
"Saru..."  
   
"Don't say it."  
   
"Why not? You did."  
   
"I was ready..."  
   
"So am I. I love you, Saru. I didn't then, that night when I last saw you... but that was when I fell."  
   
"I think I'm still falling."  
   
Who knew Fushimi had such a romantic hidden away in that maze of a mind? It was a beautiful contrast. All that worn, frayed cloth... When you looked closely... When you touched it... those bits that remained in tact were softest velvet. Izumo swore to himself at that moment that he would patch it up as best he could and touch and stroke it every day to remind Fushimi how alluring and beautiful he was.  
   
"Don't worry. I've got you," he whispered, kissing his lover gently as he lowered them both to the bed and crawled over pale, scarred flesh.  
   
He let Fushimi unwrap him from the black pants that were open and unbelted but still clung to his hips, waiting to be shed by eager hands. He let Fushimi tug on his biceps, pulling him higher. He let Fushimi grasp for his hip, fingers clenching into his right buttock. He let Fushimi plead his name, kiss him in desperation, and squirm and writhe with need.  
   
Then, he took Fushimi's jaw in his and and lowered his tongue, luring Fushimi's up between his own lips where he sucked on it and extracted a long moan even as he embedded himself in overwhelming heat. Tears glinted at the edges of Fushimi's clenched eyes, but Izumo wasn't worried, not with the way his lover rocked and wriggled under him, trying to pull him deeper.  
   
Part of him longed to take Fushimi's wrists and pin them above his head but he couldn't bear to put Fushimi in any situation where he might feel trapped, ever again. He wanted Fushimi to feel free with him.  
   
Gathering his lover into his arms, he rolled and then lay back, keeping a light hold on Fushimi's hips. He loved looking up into deep blue eyes like that.  
   
Fushimi had an intense expression trained on him; a little wary, but mostly comprised of desire with some softer hints of raw emotion creeping through.  
   
They made love that way for what could have been hours; Fushimi alternately grasping and pushing off of Izumo's shoulders, kneading his chest, and grinding palms into his nipples. They both grew slick with sweat, until Fushimi dropped to all fours, damp palms braced on drier sheets.  
   
They were anything but quiet. No words or names rent the air but they gasped, groaned, panted, whimpered, grunted, moaned, and cried out in wordless exultation.  
   
When Fushimi sat up, head hanging back and lolling as he frantically worked his hips, Izumo knew he was done for. With a desperate lunge, he wrapped his arms about Fushimi's torso and thrust wildly until they both howled in exquisite agony and tumbled back down to the sheets, utterly spent.  
   
Izumo couldn't bear to speak another word but he knew Fushimi heard him anyway.  
   
"The feely, emotional stuff might take some time... but I could sure get used to the sex," Fushimi wheezed, pushing sweat-damp hair off his face as he rolled onto his back.

Say what he might, Fushimi Saruhiko was a closet romantic and Izumo adored that about him. They wer going to be good together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know I said this was the final chapter and I've been intending for this to be a trilogy for the longest time... but there was an idea I couldn't work into this chapter and now it's gonna need a spin-off, so keep your eyes on the series "On Izuhiko" for more.


End file.
